The 12 Year Old War
I was twelve years old. I was drinking from a can of coke. "Cocola," as we called it. Still fresh from the cooler and ice cold, it dripped with the humidity of the summer air. The metal taste of the can and the biting cold of the drink made me wince happily as it brought the long awaited moisture to the dusty back of my throat.
I looked at my best friend, sitting there with me, hunched in the heat that was lessened not quite enought by the shade of the pines. The pine bed we sat in was shaded, but it lacked the cooling moist earth of the woods cut by the creek nearer my house. Heat met us fiercely from the angry dry needles at our feet, scattered like so many pick-up stix over the edge of the field where the plowed dirt had hardened into clumps less lethal than rocks. These had been our means of war all morning.
Now the heat of mid-day had driven us to peace and Mr. Larry's corner store for cokes. From there we retired to that which was our own shady Geneva. We sipped our drinks in a temporary peace we both secretly planned to break. We casually eyed the dirt at our feet for choice ballistics. We knew our war would resume when the aluminum was empty.
Sweat was still beading my forehead and sticking my shirt to my skin. James spit on the ground in front of him while he rested the elbow of his drinking arm on his right knee. He held his can loosely in fingers that were thick and strong for a boy his age. His other hand was palm down on the stump he sat on and his head hung with fatigue. His saliva slowly stretched from his pursed lips, finally breaking and dropping.
Neither of us spoke. We were both too tired and it wasn't necessary anyway. I just sat there, inhaling the humidity. I could taste the warm, thick air passing though my open mouth and over my tongue. It dried my throat, heated my lungs, and left in deference to the next tired breath. James let out the tiniest of grunts as he leaned forward and picked up a stick from the dirt with his free hand. Still silent, I watched him use it to idly mix his saliva in the dirt, making a paste, like Jesus preparing to heal the blind.
I pulled at the tall clump of grass beside me and found a blade that was long and thick enough to pull taught between the thumb and heel of each hand. Every kid out in the country learns at a young age to use a blade of grass like this to make a whistle. James looked up from his paste as I struggled to coax a note from the blade and produced only an airy whine, a flat note that died unmusically at the end of each breath that I pushed through my fingers.
Sorry. I'm out of time, but I'm posting this much now in the interest of having something new up here. What do you think so far?
I looked at my best friend, sitting there with me, hunched in the heat that was lessened not quite enought by the shade of the pines. The pine bed we sat in was shaded, but it lacked the cooling moist earth of the woods cut by the creek nearer my house. Heat met us fiercely from the angry dry needles at our feet, scattered like so many pick-up stix over the edge of the field where the plowed dirt had hardened into clumps less lethal than rocks. These had been our means of war all morning.
Now the heat of mid-day had driven us to peace and Mr. Larry's corner store for cokes. From there we retired to that which was our own shady Geneva. We sipped our drinks in a temporary peace we both secretly planned to break. We casually eyed the dirt at our feet for choice ballistics. We knew our war would resume when the aluminum was empty.
Sweat was still beading my forehead and sticking my shirt to my skin. James spit on the ground in front of him while he rested the elbow of his drinking arm on his right knee. He held his can loosely in fingers that were thick and strong for a boy his age. His other hand was palm down on the stump he sat on and his head hung with fatigue. His saliva slowly stretched from his pursed lips, finally breaking and dropping.
Neither of us spoke. We were both too tired and it wasn't necessary anyway. I just sat there, inhaling the humidity. I could taste the warm, thick air passing though my open mouth and over my tongue. It dried my throat, heated my lungs, and left in deference to the next tired breath. James let out the tiniest of grunts as he leaned forward and picked up a stick from the dirt with his free hand. Still silent, I watched him use it to idly mix his saliva in the dirt, making a paste, like Jesus preparing to heal the blind.
I pulled at the tall clump of grass beside me and found a blade that was long and thick enough to pull taught between the thumb and heel of each hand. Every kid out in the country learns at a young age to use a blade of grass like this to make a whistle. James looked up from his paste as I struggled to coax a note from the blade and produced only an airy whine, a flat note that died unmusically at the end of each breath that I pushed through my fingers.
Sorry. I'm out of time, but I'm posting this much now in the interest of having something new up here. What do you think so far?
posted by Bosephus Jamiroquai at 4:30 PM
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